


Effanineffable

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did Dean bring home a cat... or didn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Effanineffable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



***

Dean brings home a cat one day.

Or, at least, Sam thinks he does. Maybe.

They’re back in Whitefish-- holed up in Rufus’s cabin licking their metaphysical wounds and researching Bobby’s final message-- it’s near-on full Montana winter, and Sam’s not sure where would Dean _get_ a cat, anyway. But apparently, Dean wanted a cat, because Sam starts seeing a cat here and there around the place.

Except when he doesn’t.

Sam had never noticed any cats during those weeks back when they’d stayed here while Dean’s leg healed up. Bobby was a staunch dog-person; he’d have sooner booted a feline ten yards down the gravel drive than let one set up shop inside. And just the thought made Sam hope that Rumsfeld somehow found his way into Bobby’s heaven and was lounging on the hood of a pickup, waiting for him.

As for the current ambiguous cat problem, it’s not like Sam can ask Dean, “Hey, did you happen to adopt a cat recently?” Because if the answer is yes, Sam looks crazy for suddenly mentioning it a week after the thing moved in, and if the answer is no, Sam looks even crazier for hallucinating a fucking pet.

But, dammit, this cat doesn’t act like a pet, leaping into someone’s lap while watching television or greeting them at the door when they walk in. The only time Sam ever glimpses it is scuttling out from under the bed or curled up in weird places like on the third shelf of the pantry or around one of Dean’s boots. And the minute he tries to verify its existence, it’s disappeared. Or, alternatively, was never there. These days, Sam’s hard-pressed to be sure one way or the other.

It’s like Schrodinger’s cat, but instead of neither alive nor dead, Sam can’t know if it’s there or not… at least not until Dean confirms it.

And the thought comes to him, maybe the cat _isn’t_ alive. Maybe it’s a ghost cat. Cuter than most of their hauntings, true, but still, that’s exactly the kind of weird thing that happens to them. Sam’s enthusiasm for the idea wanes, however, when he tries to picture explaining to Dean why he shot their small, harmless pet full of rock salt, and he rules that particular theory as untestable for the moment.

Instead, Sam makes another quick search of the living room while Dean takes a piss. Not that he’s hiding anything; it’s just that he doesn’t want to add to Dean’s worries with a new and improved brand of crazy. He looks behind the doors, in the closets, gets down on hands and knees to peer under the sofa.

No cat.

From the doorway to the basement, Lucifer says, “Of course there's a cat in the house, Sammy. Wow. The old grey-matter has pretty much all leaked out now, hasn’t it?” And after that, the bastard decides it’s funny to start sneaking up behind Sam and meowing. Who knew you could pack so much sarcasm into a meow?

Sam knows a swift elbow to Lucifer’s windpipe never accomplishes anything, but some days he just gets tired of resisting the urge.

Putting aside the question of its reality, Sam thinks a cat would probably be really good for Dean right now, because he’s hurting worse than ever. Each bottom Dean hits, it seems there’s always another sheer cliff’s worth of fall to go. He’s so very soul-sick and defeated, he needs something simple to try to fix. A cat-- well, most cats-- would be simple. Dean never can resist the stray, the odd man out. _It's what he’s always done. The helpless attach themselves to him and he’s duty-bound to protect them._ Sam silences that internal voice before it makes the obvious connection to himself.

He goes the rest of the day without catching sight of whiskers or tail, and he’s just about convinced himself to chalk it up as one more hallucination—happily, less hideous than the others-- until dinner. They’re at the dining room table, where Dean’s looking through the local paper and Sam’s following links through some old numerology texts in an online German library while they eat. When Sam gets up to clear his plate and refill his glass, he sees it out of the corner of his eye, under the table, actually curled up on Dean’s lap, sleek tabby markings and big green eyes that track him as he strides past.

Sam’s already to the kitchen by the time his brain processes _cat_ and _lap_. He tosses his plate the last two feet to the counter and spins around, but there’s just Dean, sucking his fingers clean of some neon orange barbeque sauce-- honestly, nothing that color should be legally sold as food—no cat to be found.

Dean looks sideways at him, half-exasperated, half-pitying, and Sam sighs. He dedicates the rest of the evening to research, glaring at the computer screen like he can scare it into giving up the meaning to those six numbers and withstand the urge to set a cat-trap baited with 1% milk.

Eventually, Sam forces himself to quit for the night, gives his teeth a half-assed brushing, crawls into bed and closes his eyes. One more day, survived. Then from the kitchen he hears the quiet _snick_ of a can top pulled open, a minute later catches an unmistakable scent. Quicker than any damn cat, he’s up and at the door, ready to finally catch Dean in the act.

“What’s going on?” he calls from the doorway. He finds Dean standing at the counter, arranging lettuce on two side-by-side slices of bread.

“Hungry,” Dean grunts, piling on some sliced tomatoes. Of course. A tuna fish sandwich. Sam’s so disappointed he doesn’t even have the heart to tease Dean about eating vegetables. At least the Lucifer thing he has figured out—out of the corner of his eye he sees The Devil wave, as if he knows Sam was just thinking about him—but this cat thing, it’s ridiculous and unnerving and Sam just needs to break down and _ask_. Open his mouth. Just say, _Dean, do you see the cat, too?_

Yet when Dean offers to make him his own a sandwich, Sam looks away, says _no thanks_ , and shuffles back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. And if he thinks he sees something twitch and shift inside the bundled tangle of sheets and blankets at the foot of Dean’s bed, he resolutely ignores it.

Dean always takes the bed next to his, even though there’s another bedroom down the hall, mostly out of habit—a lifetime of security in numbers—but also because Sam’s been having pretty serious nightmares since his Wall came down. That night’s is a doozy: red and wet and there’s something particularly ghastly about the ones where Lucifer takes Jess’s form.

He struggles to wake, to escape, lashes out, nowhere to run from the pain inside of his head. It goes on for months, years, until finally he jolts into consciousness, as he often does, at the touch of Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

But it’s not Dean tonight. It’s the cat, standing with three paws planted firm on his chest, the other batting at his shoulder and hair. He can barely see it, black and grey stripes acting as camouflage, only the white ring of fur painted around its mouth stands out against the dark of the room. It’s heavier than its size would suggest, and Sam’s rapid gasps, remnants from the dream, lift the cat up and down, resulting in tiny pin-pricks on his skin as the cat delicately clings with its claws.

Sam reaches up carefully with both hands, strokes down its body, soft and lithe and alive. “So I guess you’re real after all?”

The cat’s reply is to butt its head up under Sam’s chin, force enough to click his teeth together, and he laughs. “Okay, okay. I was wrong to doubt you. You don’t have to beat me up over it.”

He sees Dean stir, pulling the thick down comforter up over his shoulder against the chill. “Dude, shut up,” Dean mutters. “We already know you’re crazy. Now stop talking to the cat and let me sleep.”

Sam pulls the cat in, buries his face in its fur to stifle another laugh. He whispers to it, “Not so crazy, right?”

The cat purrs in agreement.

***

 

[](http://s37.photobucket.com/user/deirdre_c/media/jah1Sij_zps9b9e3b2d.jpg.html)

Delightful companion art by the amazingly-talented Amber1960.

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to cherie_morte for the super-quick and wonderful beta help, even though she hates me. All remaining mistakes are mine. Title from a poem by T.S. Eliot.


End file.
